The Mister Read online E.L. James

Categories Genre: Chick Lit, Contemporary, Erotic, Romance Tags Authors:
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Total pages in book: 159
Estimated words: 157450 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
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That morning Alessia had been lucky enough to find a seat on the train, but the woman beside her had spent much of the journey shrieking into her phone about her unsuccessful date the night before. Alessia had ignored her and read the free newspaper to improve her English, but she’d wished she could listen to music through headphones and not this woman’s loud whining. Once she finished the paper, she’d closed her eyes and daydreamed of majestic mountains dotted with snow and pastures where the air was scented with thyme and filled with the hum of honeybees. She misses home. She misses the peace and quiet. She misses her mother, and she misses her piano.

Her fingers flex in her pockets as she recalls her warm-up piece, hearing the notes loud and clear in her mind and seeing them in blazing color. How long has it been since she played? Her excitement builds as she thinks of the piano waiting for her in the apartment.

She makes her way through the entrance of the old building toward the elevator, barely able to contain her enthusiasm, and then up to the top-floor apartment. For a few hours on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, this wonderful place with its large airy rooms, dark wooden floors, and baby grand piano is all hers. She unlocks the door, poised to switch off the alarm, but to her surprise there’s no warning tone. Perhaps the system’s broken or it’s not been set. Or…No. She realizes to her horror that the owner must be at home. Listening hard, trying to detect any signs of life, she stands in the wide hallway that’s hung with black-and-white photographic landscapes. She hears nothing.

Mirë.

No. “Good.” English. Think in English. Whoever lives here must have gone to work and forgotten to set the alarm. She’s never met the man, but she knows he has a good job, because the apartment is huge. How else can he afford it? She sighs. He might be rich, but he’s a complete slob. She’s been here three times already, twice with Krystyna, and each time the apartment is a mess and requires hours of tidying and cleaning.

The gray day is seeping through the skylight at the end of the hall, so Alessia flicks the switch and the crystal chandelier above her bursts into life, illuminating the hallway. She peels off her woolen scarf and hangs it up with her anorak in the closet beside the front door. From her plastic shopping bag, she pulls out the old sneakers that Magda has given her, and after taking off her wet boots and socks she slips them on, grateful that they are dry so her frozen feet can warm up. Her thin jersey top and T-shirt are no match for the cold. She rubs her arms briskly to bring some life back into them as she makes her way through the kitchen into the laundry room. There she dumps her shopping bag on the counter. Out of it she pulls the ill-fitting nylon housecoat that Krystyna bequeathed her and puts it on, then fastens a pale blue scarf around her head in an effort to keep her thick braid in check. From the cupboard beneath the sink, she takes out the cleaning caddy, and from the top of the washing machine she grabs the laundry basket and heads straight to his bedroom. If she hurries, she can finish the apartment before it’s time to leave and the piano will be hers for a short while.

She opens the door but freezes on the threshold of the room.

He’s here.

The man!

Fast asleep facedown and sprawled naked across the large bed. She stands, shocked and fascinated at once, her feet rooted to the wooden floor as she stares. He’s stretched across the length of the bed, tangled in his duvet but naked…very naked. His face is turned toward her but covered by unkempt brown hair. One arm is beneath the pillow that supports his head, the other extended toward her. He has broad, defined shoulders, and on his biceps is an elaborate tattoo that is partially hidden by the bedding. His back is sun-kissed with a tan that fades as his hips narrow to dimples and to a pale, taut backside.

Backside.

He’s naked!

Lakuriq!

Zot!

His long, muscular legs disappear beneath a knot of gray duvet and silver silk bedspread, though his foot sticks out over the edge of the mattress. He stirs, the muscles in his back rippling, and his eyelids flicker open to reveal unfocused but brilliant green eyes. Alessia stops breathing, convinced he’ll be angry that she’s woken him. Their eyes meet, but he shifts and turns his face away. He settles down and goes back to sleep. Relieved, she exhales a deep breath.

Shyqyr Zotit!

Flushed with mortification, she tiptoes out of his bedroom and bolts up the long hall and into the living room, where she sets the cleaning caddy on the floor and begins to gather his discarded clothes.


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